The Healing

by Linda Byler

  “Ach. How can it be? Who told you about this?”

  “Everybody does it now. Well, except for a few grandmothers like you who find it too hard to change.”

  Andrew slapped the tray of his high chair with his plastic spoon, sending cooked peas bouncing over the side. He bent over, looked at the peas rolling and sat back up, his eyes wide, his mouth in a perfect O. He lifted his face, his eyes closed as he laughed.

  Lydia caught his hand as he prepared to send more peas over the edge of his tray.

  “Nay, nay.”

  He watched his mother’s face for the degree of seriousness, tried again, but was stopped by Alvin’s hand this time. He looked to his mother, who shook her head and said, “Nay, Andrew. Nay, nay.”

  Mam was proud to see them working together to teach the little boy the meaning of no. She approved of so much—in fact, of everything she saw. Her spirits soared in gratitude. What could be more uplifting than seeing that your children walked in the way of truth, respected the teaching of their youth, honored their father and mother? This was what they had strived for, she and Elmer, and here was the fruit of their labors.

  The grand tour of the kennel took place after chores. John had already been inside, with Alvin, but they’d only taken a few steps before the dogs set up such a clamoring and howling that Alvin said they’d return at feeding time.

  John felt intimidated by the state-of-the-art dog kennel. It was a long building with battery lighting, white walls, sloped cement flooring, new metal caging with large, airy pens. It was clean and compassionate, built around the dogs’ comfort.

  Alvin fed each dog their ration of dry dog food, then allowed everyone entrance to the main walkway.

  A German shepherd with distinctive black markings lay panting in a corner, unable or unwilling to eat. Her stomach was distended, her teats engorged, her gentle brown eyes seeking John’s, as if she was begging for relief. John looked at her, felt the sharp pang of sympathy, the accompanying lump in his throat, and whispered, “It’s OK, poor dog. You’ll get through this. I’ll help you.”

  Thump, thump went the long, plumed tail.

  Alvin joined him, said quietly, “She’s due any day.”

  John nodded, too shy to say more. The truth was, he knew nothing about dogs. They had never had one on the farm, due to his mother’s aversion to them. Even now, she stood just inside the door with a distasteful expression on her face. The only thing he knew about them was the fact that they barked when someone arrived, some of them were good for herding animals, and occasionally, they could take a chunk out of a leg.

  There were miniature schnauzers, gray and white with black noses and cheeks, black hairs on their ears, and large, curious eyes. They were friendly little chaps, dancing and leaping against the wire mesh of their enclosure. He felt the same pang of pity, wanted to open the gate and let them run. Run and run and run.

  Well, this was simply not going to cut it, all this pity and wanting to release the animals. He was here to work, to help Alvin and Lydia be successful in raising puppies that would be sold as pets.

  There were so many different breeds. The Alaskan malamutes were just beautiful creatures, every one. The puppies took his breath away. He had never seen anything so cute.

  Suddenly, he experienced an intense longing to show these puppies to Lena. He had hardly thought of her since they’d started their trip, but now he wished she were here.

  What would she say? She loved every living creature.

  There were boxers and Scottish terriers, poodles and Samoyeds. There was a section for the mastiffs and the Newfoundlands, the biggest dogs that took a bit more care and expertise, a fact that Alvin said made him nervous. They were expensive dogs, requiring experienced help at a birthing. Lydia looked forward to the challenge, he said. He hoped John would be like his sister.

  “We have a lot of money tied up in this kennel. Sometimes it scares me a little, what all could go wrong. We’ve got some stiff payments to make, so I’m counting on you, John.”

  He clapped a hand on his shoulder, looked up to give him a comradely grin. John felt his heartbeat quicken, his knees turn to Jell-O, the strength draining from his shoulders. His fingers went numb.

  Looking around, he remembered to nod, let Alvin know he had heard, before folding his tall frame onto a stack of bagged dog food. He almost slid off and collapsed in a destitute heap on the floor.

  It was too much. The responsibility flattened his strength, smashed his resolve, left it tinkling like shards of broken glass. Why, oh why, couldn’t he be normal like other people? Why had he even come to Kentucky?

  They should have told him beforehand how much was actually expected of him. He knew nothing, and half the time he didn’t even have the strength to drag his weakened body out of bed in the morning.

  He sat on the bags of dog food, listened to Alvin explain each breed to his father, felt his strength ebb away like the tide in the ocean, going out, out, out, leaving a pile of sand and hermit crabs and dead jellyfish, a stinking mishmash of dead sea creatures that represented yet another failure.

  He went to bed early, then cried wretchedly, unable to stop the sobs of a grown boy. In the morning, he stayed in bed till his mother became frantic and banged on the door.

  When he didn’t answer, she went back downstairs and had a long and whispered conversation with Lydia, sparing nothing.

  Lydia drew her mouth in a straight line, told her mother they’d take a day at a time, and see what occurred. Lydia brushed her off like a pesky housefly, which only served to infuriate Mam.

  John would get up when he was ready, Lydia said. Alvin knew he wasn’t healthy and had already hired a neighbor boy to help around the farm.

  Lydia was perceptive, had seen John fade in the kennel, after Alvin’s challenge or pep talk, or whatever you wanted to call it.

  Well, he’d meant well, so no use getting irked at her husband. He didn’t know John, didn’t understand the disease. If this was a setback, then so be it.

  That’s what the recliner was for.

  The parents visited Elam and Susie, Benuel and Sara Ann and the grandchildren, then set off for the Amtrak station.

  At the station, Dat looked deeply into John’s eyes, shook his hand, and said, “This will be a good experience, John. You’ll learn from it. I just have a good feeling about you and Lydia.”

  John dipped his head as quick tears sprang to his eyes.

  “Thanks, Dat. I’ll do my best.”

  Mam was a flurry of anxious reminders. “Don’t forget the Nature’s Way pills, and Body Balance, and the detox—it’s all upstairs in the bathroom cupboard. And don’t forget vitamin D. Take extra. Bye, John. Take care. Lydia has our phone number. Bye!”

  And she disappeared, his father’s hand on her elbow, steering her through the knot of travelers boarding the train.

  He tried to sort through his feelings on the return trip to the farm. Lonesome? Bereft? Not really. Just empty, drained. So tired. So physically weary. He’d have to tell Lydia that Alvin couldn’t depend on him. He wasn’t feeling strong at all.

  Since there was no porch on the house, Alvin and Lydia produced comfortable lawn chairs and pulled them up to a fire ring made of large, chunky fieldstone. The chairs were the old type, metal with a frame bent into a C, a fan-shaped back painted bright yellow. If you sat on them, you sank back and bounced up and down like a rocking chair, but better.

  Alvin threw a few pieces of wood on cardboard and newspaper, held a propane torch to it till he was rewarded with a crackle, then sat back, rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, his fingers woven on his stomach, and began to talk.

  He talked constantly, a flow of words coming from his mouth. He shared simple stories or opinions or his views on life, or people, methods of farming, how he felt when he met Lydia, how his brother made so much money being on a roof all day.

  He often laughed uproariously at his own jokes, slapping his knees and howling, almost falling off his c
hair.

  The firewood crackled and burned. Night would soon close in around them, but it was a friendly night. The darkness was soft with the heady scent of hollyhocks and delphinium, the roses along the west side of the house. Fireflies lent their ineffectual lights to the velvety dark, pigeons cooed their warbling wishes to each other. Bats wheeled in the last light of the day and owls rumbled their throaty calls.

  This would be the first of many evenings spent by the fire. Sometimes they made s’mores with graham crackers, marshmallows, peanut butter, and chocolate bars. Other times, they simply drank lemonade.

  John came to look forward to darkness, the time he had dreaded most since becoming ill. After the campfire and a hot shower in the clawfoot tub, he fell asleep, more often than not, tired, clean inside and out, the sound of Alvin’s voice like a warming cup of hot chocolate.

  And never once did any one of them mention Lyme disease or the state of his well-being.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE HOT SUMMER DAYS TURNED INTO A RELUCTANT AUTUMN WITH crisp, foggy mornings and searing afternoons, when the sun refused to relinquish its heat, as if the morning coolness would threaten its domain over the land.

  Hot days reached into October. John’s feet ached constantly as he slogged through each day, doing whatever Alvin expected of him, without interest, as if he got through each hour by his determination alone.

  From her kitchen window, Lydia watched him walk to the dog kennel, shuffling his feet like a man nearing the end of his days. His head was bowed, his shoulders stooped. Part of her wanted to shake him, knock him around, put some sense into his head, tell him to look around, notice his surroundings, be thankful, think of someone else other than himself.

  He showed no interest in making friends, never even tried to join the youth group in spite of the invitations Lydia knew were proffered.

  Mam’s phone calls were unwelcome thrusts into her already busy life, shoving all resolve into uncomfortable twinges of regret for what she did or did not do. No, John was not doing well. No, he showed no interest in the dogs, ever. Yes, he did his chores. At first he’d done better, for a while.

  Mam’s latest suggestion had been to ask John to come home.

  “Home to what, Mam?” Lydia asked, painfully aware of all her resolve that had fallen short.

  “Well, us. His brothers. His normal life.”

  Lydia kept it together for all of thirty seconds before she let loose a volley of pent-up fear and frustration, resulting in her mother telling her goodbye before gently replacing the receiver.

  Later, in the cool dusk, she sat on the chair by the fire pit and cried silent swallowed tears in the half-light, listening to John’s brave attempts at joining Alvin’s conversation.

  Undone by her mother’s phone call, afraid of the looming appearance of her own failure, she contemplated the question she never thought she would ask.

  The following day, the Alaskan Malamute had a litter of six healthy puppies. John did spend some time under Alvin’s supervision cleaning her cage, making sure the puppies were nursing sufficiently.

  The kennel was immaculate, fans whirring to keep the temperature at a reasonable sixty-five degrees. The dogs lay in corners, relaxed, comfortable, or when they felt energetic, they had access to the dog run, a long fenced-in area where they would receive fresh air and sunshine.

  John made a final round before checking the clock on the wall, then headed to the house for lunch. He had been fighting nausea all morning, finally guessing his sour stomach was due to that latest bottle of whatever concoction was in that vile-smelling tincture.

  His head down, his thumbs hooked loosely in his pockets, he was shuffling across the driveway when the sound of an automobile horn tore through his reverie.

  He jumped, looked around, wild-eyed.

  A small gray car pulled to a halt. The door was flung open, slammed shut, and a tall, slim, black teenager about his own age stood with one hand on the hood of his car, one leg crossing the other at the knee, toes propped on the ground, one elbow jutting out to the side. He wore a gold-colored sweatshirt and some odd-looking pants, cropped below the knee, with long white socks pulled mid calf, encased in purple high-top sneakers with gold laces.

  He nodded, grinned, said softly, “Hey, ma man.”

  His face was all merriment and eagerness. His skin glowed with a deep bronze shine, like an old copper penny.

  John nodded, said hello, softly, his throat riddled with phlegm. He had hardly spoken a word all day, so his voice was rusty. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat, then cleared it again.

  “’S’wrong with da voice, man?”

  John grinned sheepishly, shrugged his shoulders.

  The white teeth appeared in a blinding grin, a second and he had loosened his nonchalant stance and hopped on the hood of the car. John winced as his backside slammed against the gray metal. Immediately both purple-clad feet were stuck straight in the air for leverage, his arms bunched at his sides, a roll from his back and he cleared the hood of the car, landing expertly on his feet with a practiced move he must have done hundreds of times.

  He slapped his fists together, bounced on the fronts of both feet, laughed out loud.

  “Name’s Dewan. Dewan Reynolds. Live a few miles down the road from here. Came to see Mister Alvin Beiler.”

  “I’m John. John Stoltzfus. Lydia’s brother from Pennsylvania.”

  A hand whipped out to meet John’s faltering one, gripped his fingers like metal tongs.

  “Glad to meet you, John.”

  John, being unused to formal introduction, mumbled some reply that made no sense. Something between “pleased to meet you” and “me, too,” which came out “pleased me, too.” Or something like that. His face flamed. He felt the heat in his neck.

  “Yeah, John buddy. We friends. Buddies. Brothers. Bros.”

  A long dark hand snaked out, clapped his shoulder and stayed there.

  “So, call me Dewan.”

  John grinned a sickly grin, like curdled milk, shivery and unsure. What was he supposed to do with this fireball of words and energy? Were Amish boys his age allowed to hang out with someone as polished and worldly as Dewan?

  Before he could gather his thoughts one way or another, Dewan began his life’s story, complete with his knuckle cracking and arm swinging, which was fine with John. At least the hawkish grip on his shoulder was gone.

  He was born in Detroit, Michigan, to a sixteen-year-old mother. Never knew his father. His mother raised him and his two siblings, with the help of an aunt, who kept the children for free while she worked the night shift at Walmart and took cleaning jobs during the day.

  Boyfriends came and went, some of them nice, some of them not so nice, but all of them were temporary, none of them a permanent father.

  When the aunt died, they moved to Dexter Falls to be with another aunt, his mother’s sister Neva. They lived in a trailer park, went to school with mostly white kids. His mother got a good job as a worker at the Dart Corporation, worked her way up to floor manager, and brought home a decent wage, which enabled them to purchase the house on Circle Drive.

  “She still works there. Don’t have no man. Says she don’t need one. But she goes out sometimes. I finished school this year. Grad-uated! Yeah!”

  John watched Dewan clap once and pump a fist in the air, feeling a slow rise start in his chest, a deep and abiding bubble of pure mirth. He had never experienced anyone quite like this, someone so effusive, so . . . free.

  “Yep, I do have that diploma. The world can know, Dewan Reynolds has succeeded. A force to be reckoned with. Here I come, folks. I gonna study to be a veter-inar-ian!”

  John couldn’t stop smiling, reflecting Dewan’s own confident grin.

  “My mom, she say go ahead. You can do it, baby. She know how smart I am. Yeah.”

  John watched Dewan’s face, took in the glow from the smooth, dark skin, the cropped curly, kinky black hair. He was one of the most handsome men John had ever seen
. His eyes snapped and sparked with vivacity, an endless flow of good humor.

  Now Dewan brought his swinging arms down to the front, then back again, only to slap the palms together once more. He looked at the barn, then back to the house, a question in his eyes.

  “Think Mr. Alvin could use some help? See, I need to work with the animals. See if I do have a knack for my chosen profession. See, he don’t have to pay me much. I already got a job at Wendy’s in town. I flip them burgers.”

  He demonstrated with both hands, face lifted to the sky. John half expected to see burgers falling from the clouds, as intent as Dewan’s eyes were.

  “Not too bad, that job at Wendy’s. I’m saving. See this car? Seven hundred, man. Seven hundred. Paid cash. No car payment. See, you can’t hand out all that money that goes to interest. Drowns you before you can even start swimming. Sure it does.”

  John nodded, feeling like a dead fish—bland and dull and lifeless. He was afraid of his own shadow, flecked with the spittle of Lyme disease. He had no future, no choice, no nothing. No horse and buggy, no friends, stuck in the middle of Kentucky.

  “So what’s up with you, ma man? You look a bit peaked. You’re about the color of brand-new notebook paper.”

  John felt a flush of anger.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled.

  “Yeah, don’t mean to take you off but you are white. I know I’m black, but you are the whitest white I’ve ever seen.”

  Fortunately, at that moment, Alvin appeared at the kennel door, a puppy in his hand. He stopped, took in the gray car, the two boys, then walked toward them, the puppy nestled in both hands, a smile on his face.

  “Yo,” said Dewan.

  “Hello.”

  “Name’s Dewan Reynolds. How you doin’?”

  “I’m well, thank you. Yourself?”

  “Awesome, man. I doin’ awesome. What you got there? That a German shepherd?”

  Dewan reached out to touch the puppy, which had just opened its eyes at three weeks, the coat of hair now clearly containing black and brown markings. Alvin dumped the puppy in the long black hands, and a friendship was born.